


Old Habits Die Hard

by goodtimesbadtimes



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Cutting, Depressed Sherlock, Depression, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Fluff, Lonely Sherlock, POV Sherlock Holmes, Post-Reichenbach, Sad Sherlock, Self-Harm, Sherlock's point of view, Sherlock-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-03
Updated: 2016-12-14
Packaged: 2018-09-06 05:34:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8736799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goodtimesbadtimes/pseuds/goodtimesbadtimes
Summary: Sherlock has trouble adjusting to his life and his cases without John. He retreats into a habit he would much like to forget. TRIGGER WARNING: SELF-HARM IS THE PRIMARY FOCUS OF THIS





	1. Chapter 1

This case was taking its toll on Sherlock. He was not used to navigating human emotion directly, let alone without John by his side. John always knew what to say to these ordinary people dealing with their ordinary emotions. He could get to the truth behind their clouded judgement, which, in turn, cleared Sherlock’s judgement as well. And this was only his first case since he came back. He would never have imagined that even after returning to Baker street he would still be alone. 

_John…_

Sherlock’s head was spinning. Images, dates, words, facts. All racing through; all trying to find their way into Sherlock’s immediate consciousness. He was trying to sort through the information he kept stashed away, but it was all too much. 

Sherlock closed his eyes and attempted to steady his breath. _This shouldn't be so hard. Nothing about this is that hard, so why can’t I do this?_ It was all too much for him.

His eyes flashed open and he bolted up right. Sherlock knew what he needed to do to make this all stop. And no, it’s not drugs. Sherlock, of course, thought about that, but he isn’t bored. That is not what he needs right now. He needs… relief.

He took his long, strong strides across the flat into the bathroom. Throwing open the door, he propelled himself onto the cold tile. Sherlock’s hands began to shake. He was becoming more desperate as he began digging through the cabinet under the sink.

Two years; it has been two years since he did this. All the excitement, torture, pain, and happiness of the past years on the run, disassembling Moriarti’s network, had kept his mind away from this old habit of his. And yet here he is. Alone.

_Oh John…_

_What does he matter now?_ _No one is here to stop me so I might as well do what I_ ** _need_** _to do to solve this._

_Finally._ Sherlock found the thin, cold blade. _Stainless/ Ice tempered steel_ it read. He slithered his sleeve up his arm, exposing his thin wrist. His old scars have all but disappeared. The slightest whisper of evidence remaining. He ran his finger over across his wrist and then put the blade along that imaginary line. The cold edge sent a quick shiver up his spine, but did nothing to deter the frantic thoughts. 

_Only one thing could truly deter them now_

Breathing out, Sherlock pushed down the blade and felt that initial sting. He held the same pressure on the blade and slid it, end to end, along his wrist. The blood pooled in perfect little dots along the line he drew. _Again. Again. Again_ he commanded himself. 

_Just one more. Just push the blade to push the thoughts away._

Before he knew it, he had seven parallel cuts. None too deep, but the blood from adjacent cuts would pool together, eventually becoming too much and streaming down Sherlock’s arm.

He took a deep breath. Everything faded away as he focused on the pain radiating from his arm; the movement on the blood; the beautiful deep red. This by no means solved the case, but Sherlock did feel as if he could think clearer, as if he could sort through information better (or at least he was trying to convincing himself of that). 

Sherlock winced as he rinsed his arm under cold water. He placed cotton over the wounds and hastily wrapped his bloodied canvas in cloth. 

“Lestrade” Sherlock said into his phone with his usual aire of arrogance, “Your men must be especially thick to miss this one. Nice to see _that_ hasn’t changed since I’ve been gone.”

And Sherlock closed the door to the bathroom, then the door to the flat, then the door to 221B Baker street. 


	2. Chapter 2

“Sherlock!”

John’s voice rang out through the the flat.

_Ah he must have found this or that in the fridge. Poor, poor, easily shaken, John.._

Sherlock’s eyes snapped open. For a second he had forgotten that John did not live there anymore. For a second he had forgotten that John, in fact,had not spoken to him for nearly three months.

Sherlock was looking up at a series of pictures and cut up newspapers taped to his bathroom ceiling. Lying in the tub, Sherlock’s long legs hung over the side. Next to Sherlock’s head was a shining, silver blade sitting on the edge of the tub. 

“Sherlock?!”

He sprung up, pulled down the sleeve on his shirt, and entered onto the living room, promptly shutting the door behind him and whipping his robe on over his shoulders. 

“Oh, Sherlock, there you- Were you sleeping in there?” John asked curiously.

“Change of scenery. Helps me think. So who was it that called you here?” Sherlock gazed at him another second then, “Ah it was Mycroft. Damn, he must learn to mind his own business. I am quite busy these days, you know.” He said all this very fast, barely givingJohn the time took gaze back at Sherlock in awe. 

“I could just be stopping by to see a friend. You aren’t always as clever as you think.” 

“You appeared agitated before I was even able to utter a word, meaning you came here that way. No coat on, but you clearly brought one with you to work given your outfit and the brisk weather outside. You were retrieved by Mycroft— he always puts you in quite a mood— and sent this way. He must have done a good job scaring you if you left your coat in his car and came over here so hastily.”

“Must you show off all the time? Once, just once, when I stop by could you just offer me some tea? Offer me a seat in- ” John gestured to his chair and realized that it was gone.In its place was a three-legged stool, Sherlock’s skull resting on top. John felt a twinge of pain in his chest. _Mycroft may have had a point. Sherlock might not being doing as well as I originally would have guessed._

Sherlock shrugged, trying his best to look disinterested, and said, “It was blocking my view to the kitchen. I can see _past_ the stool.” Falling into his own chair, Sherlock did not look at John, but he could feel John looking at him. “But you shouldn’t have bothered yourself coming over here. I’m fine and Mycroft is prone to worry.”

“Sherlock, there is nothing unusual about me stopping by to see you. I care- ” 

“Oh stop that now” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I don’t need this pity. I’m fine! Better than ever actually!” Sherlock may have said this a little too forcefully, “I no longer have to slow down and explain things to you as I’m working.”

John looked like he had been slapped.He knew Sherlock was hurting, _he’s just trying to protect himself,_ but it still hurt.

“God you are such a prick! I’m here for you Sherlock! I’m just trying to stop you from having another, another _warehouse incident_!”

Now it was Sherlock’s turn to look affronted. “I don’t _need_ you, John. I never needed you. I just, you know, _kept_ you around.” Sherlock rose to his feet. 

John started pacing around the flat, looking at his feet, a look of increasing pain on his face. When he finally looked up he saw the sleeve of Sherlock’s dressing gown had slipped back past his elbow. Underneath, John could see crimson lines soaking through the white undershirt. He stopped in his tracks. 

“Oh. Oh, Sherlock… How could you do that?” 

For the first time, it was Sherlock who looked confused. His face drained quickly and he turned towards the mantel adjusting his loose dressing gown sleeve. 

“For the love of _God,_ talk to me!” 

Sherlock could hear the pain in John’s voice and he felt his head start to spin and his heart start to hurt. John’s words weighed heavily in his thoughts but Sherlock could not think of a single thing to say. Well, he could think of a hundred things to say: _I’m… I’m sorry John. I messed up. You were never supposed to know about this._ But he could not utter a single one. He just continued to lean against the fireplace, hanging his head. 

“Sherlock!” John moved across the room and put his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, pulling him, making Sherlock face him. His eyes, ever changing green to blue, were gleaming and tears were streaking those beautiful cheekbones.

Sherlock opened his mouth, but he couldn’t seem to find any words. “John…” he whispered. The silent tears started rolling a little faster now.

John’s eyes, too, started to shine, tears welling in them. “Why” his voice breaking before he could even bring himself to finish his question. They stared into each other’s eyes for a moment longer. Then, Sherlock, leaning against the fireplace, slid down and landed on the cold floor, hugging his knees to his chest. _He looks so frail, so broken._ In that moment, Sherlock was not the brilliant, cold-hearted detective, but he was John’s friend. John’s _best_ friend. John’s entire world.

Sherlock would not open his eyes, for if he did, he was unsure what he would see. _Would Would he see the angry face of a former colleague? Would John’s sad, yet stern face be looking down at me with pity? Would John even still be standing there?_


	3. Chapter 3

It seemed like an eternity had passed, but it had not been a minute. John lowered himself to his knees and pried Sherlock’s arm away from his body and lifted up the sleeve. The whispers and traces of scars lined the ivory skin. Among them were five deep wounds running parallel on his forearm. Blood was pooling in the cuts, but not yet running down, having been partially soaked up by his undershirt.

“C’mon now, up we go.” John breathed, pulling Sherlock up, walking quietly into the bathroom. John sat Sherlock down against the tub; the same spot in the flat that Sherlock made the lacerations, John began cleaning them calmly.

“Please, John, you don't have to do this.” Sherlock whimpered.

“Hush. If we don't tend to these soon they will certainly get infected.” John was trying to maintain his doctorly demeanor, but Sherlock could see the tears trickling down his friends face and his upper lip trembling, ever so slightly.

John finished cleaning and wrapping the wounds, but he did not move; he just sat there holding Sherlock’s hand in his own. Then the glint of silver razor, still sitting on the ledge, caught John’s eye and he broke. It was as if that razor, too, had torn John open. Tears ran down his face quickly and his breath was ragged. John crumpled and it was Sherlock’s turn to hold him.

“John, please. The last thing I have _ever_ wanted is to hurt you.” Sherlock’s voice shook, “I started this long before I met you and I’ll continue long after you leave.”

“Oh Sherlock this is my fault. I should have paid more attention. I… I left you when you needed me, I never should h-” John looked up, his blue-gray eyes shining with wet tears. He pressed his forehead against Sherlock’s. And Sherlock could feel John's breath mixing with his own.

Sherlock moved forward and kissed John; long and gentle. When they parted, John whispered, eyes still closed, “I won’t leave, Sherlock. I can’t… I love you.”

“Don’t say that, John. Don’t say things you don’t mean”

John looked hurt; pained by his next words: “I love you. You saved my life in so many ways. Sherlock, you _died for me”_ the words seemed to catch in his throat a little, but he muddled through, _“_ And I would do the same for you. A hundred times over.”This time it was John who leaned in for this kiss: long and sweet and heavy.

Sherlock, then, put his head in the crevasse between John’s neck and shoulder. “I always loved you. I will always love you.”

They sat, holding each other, after what felt like 130 years of loneliness. They sat on that bathroom floor for what could have been a matter of seconds, or a matter of years. It made no difference; they were finally together, and they would stay like that, _together,_ for the rest of their time.

**Author's Note:**

> ok guys, this is my first little fic ever. just a short thing I wrote when I was flying home from my vacation :)  
> please give me honest feedback if you don't mind, anything you have to say would be appreciated
> 
> *edit* added a second part (with the third one coming)) because why not :P 
> 
> *another edit* ok that's all I've got :) hope you like it. again, any feedback would be cool


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